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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/29257239">Poetry by Hypercharles</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/hypercharles/pseuds/hypercharles'>hypercharles</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>My original works [2]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Original Work</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Poetry</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-02-07</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-02-06</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-13 12:28:23</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Not Rated</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>7</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>2,058</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/29257239</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/hypercharles/pseuds/hypercharles</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>A collection of poems ive written over the years</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>My original works [2]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/879123</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Heart</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>He was shiny and new—</p><p>standing alone—</p><p>and I was caught</p><p>by the look in his eye</p><p>and the tongue persuading me</p><p>to chill out.</p><p> </p><p>I began to doubt</p><p>things I thought I knew</p><p>(like the  voices inside me)</p><p>so I left him alone,</p><p>because I</p><p>felt I ought</p><p> </p><p>to get caught</p><p>for the things I think about:</p><p>the spark in his eye,</p><p>an enticing view,</p><p>because I was alone—</p><p>always just me.</p><p> </p><p>I wish I wasn’t me,</p><p>because I knew I ought</p><p>to leave him alone,</p><p>not cut his heart out—</p><p>because I knew</p><p>he wanted to live, I</p><p> </p><p>knew his blood. I</p><p>heard him beg me</p><p>in a voice I knew,</p><p>in a voice I fought,</p><p>he cried out</p><p>
  <em>Leave me alone!</em>
</p><p> </p><p>I should have left him alone,</p><p>not killed him, but I</p><p>had begun to doubt</p><p>the things that spoke to me.</p><p>But then I was caught</p><p>and he was brand new.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>I hate you for being so new and temptingly alone like that—</em>
</p><p>
  <em>you caught my eye and I knew I had to get rid of you,</em>
</p><p>
  <em>get you out, get you away from me, erase you. </em>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. We never made it to target</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>be careful when you drive</p><p>her hand on my hand twitches</p><p>at sirens calling in the distance</p><p><em>Panic!</em> on the radio</p><p> </p><p>her hand in mine twitches</p><p>as she tells me about her day</p><p>between <em>Panic!</em> on the radio</p><p>the road stretches before us</p><p> </p><p>she tells me about her day</p><p>her eyes on me and not ahead</p><p>on the road stretching before us</p><p>our car stops: bang, <strong>crunch</strong></p><p> </p><p>her eyes on me and not ahead</p><p>be careful when you drive</p><p>because our car slams, bang, <strong>crunch</strong></p><p>and sirens wail in the distance</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. In Maine Woods</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>No teeth--he pulled them all out behind the house;</p><p>we ate soft food at my grandfather’s house.</p><p>Nearly deaf--his hearing aids always beeped;</p><p>the TV was too loud at my grandfather’s house.</p><p>He had plenty of woods to explore, full of junk cars,</p><p>good for shooting my gun at my grandfather’s house.</p><p>We slept on tiny canvas cots a foot apart;</p><p>the rooms were too small at my grandfather’s house.</p><p>We’d fight for chairs at the table, in the living room,</p><p>because there were never enough at my grandfather’s house.</p><p>I miss hearing his: “Come see me again soon, Charlotte.”</p><p>Now no one lives at my grandfather’s house.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Remember this</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>make sure you don’t forget</p><p>to tell him you love him</p><p>and make sure she knows</p><p>you’ll never forget her</p><p> </p><p>and make sure you hug your parents</p><p>before they leave</p><p>because they won’t always</p><p>come back</p><p> </p><p>make sure you are humble</p><p>and don’t make people feel dumb</p><p>because life isn’t a contest</p><p>and they’ll make sure you lose</p><p> </p><p>make sure you</p><p>are never afraid to cry</p><p>because emotions aren’t silly </p><p>and tears aren’t a mark of weakness</p><p> </p><p>make sure you are true</p><p>to yourself, to the world</p><p>it may be a scary place</p><p>but you are filled with confidence </p><p> </p><p>makes sure you are kind</p><p>make sure you lend a hand</p><p>but take care of yourself first</p><p>because you matter to me</p><p>            most of all</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. My mother's bed on a Sunday afternoon</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The cardboard makes an awful</p><p>Ripping noise</p><p>But tissues are</p><p>Standard anxiety attack supplies</p><p> </p><p>My hands make fists</p><p>In the wedding gift quilt</p><p>Careful not to rip the seams with</p><p>The desperate claws</p><p>I can’t relax</p><p>Only a quilt’s texture is acceptable</p><p>In times like these</p><p>--quilts, and Steve’s ears, Flapjack’s tail</p><p>Held between my palm and the green patch</p><p> </p><p>She</p><p>Places the stuffed bunny</p><p>In the crook of my elbow</p><p>And a cold, wet nose follows</p><p>The jingle of dog tags, pressure at my feet</p><p> </p><p>My shallow inhales reveal the burnt out match in the nearby sink</p><p>And “Sand Castles” glows in the corner</p><p>Far from the curtain flicking the arm chair</p><p> </p><p>I close my eyes against bright walls and</p><p>I focus on the voice that</p><p>Fills the room to the ceiling,</p><p>Pushing the barrier off my shoulders</p><p>Pillows piled up,</p><p>A soothing pressure,</p><p>Arms trying to settle</p><p>My twisting stomach</p><p>My chest heaves</p><p>The cool air feels</p><p>Too thin</p><p>And the tears keep coming</p><p>And I am too</p><p>Hot, and the dog is whining</p><p>And I</p><p>I</p><p>The walls repeat what I could not hear</p><p>The first time</p><p>
  <em>Everything’s going to be okay </em>
</p><p>I hope</p><p>
  <em>You are stronger than this </em>
</p><p>Maybe</p><p>And that nothing is more</p><p>Important than my mental state</p><p>            Something I will not believe for a long time</p><p>And the air reaches my lungs after</p><p>Those long, paralyzing hours</p><p>And she is still beside me</p><p>
  <em>You are braver, you are stronger, you are smarter</em>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>Winnie the Pooh has never been so wise</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0006"><h2>6. A monologue from a nonbinary kid</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>This one isnt a poem, more of a monologue of sorts</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>I was wearing matching socks. My dad’s socks, to be exact, snug inside my converse. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>And it sounds silly, but I don’t actually own matching socks. I was determined to look completely put together that day, however, so I sucked it up and wore boring white socks. My sweater vest was smooth against my flattened chest, squeezed underneath a binder that didn’t really fit. My tie was neat in my collar, and my slacks didn’t cling to my hips like they usually did. And I was excited because I thought I was finally passing for once, even if it was only for a day. I thought I looked like a boy, for once. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Clearly I had made an error with something. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Was it because I’m too short? </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Was it because of the size of my arms, my thighs? </span>
</p><p>
  <span>My chest? Were they looking at my chest? </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Because I was walking around the hallways that morning. My girlfriend wasn’t there yet, my hands were empty, and I had no secondhand trace of chap-stick on my lips. So I was walking around by myself, probably my first mistake. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>So as I walked by that group of guys, I felt understandably nervous. Compared to my usual attire, I was the most masculine possible. But compared to these boys? Fuck that. And I guess they could tell. Because as I walk by, I hear a sudden dip in volume of their conversation, at least ten eyes on me at once. And I am sweating and I’m nervous because I don’t want them to say anything because yes I’m gay and yes I’m trans but that’s none of their business, is it? </span>
</p><p>
  <span>And just as I’m about to be past them, I hear something that breaks my heart. Because I was really trying that day, and all I wanted was to get some goddam validation but noooo, that’s not possible for a little queer like me, I guess. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I think it’s a female?” one of them says, and I wanted to cry.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Well, and scream a lot. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Male or female?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>They all ask as if it’s that simple. As if the question is as simple as black and white.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>(It’s not that simple)</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yes, there is a simple answer if they wanted to know what’s in my pants, but I should hope there is more decency in the world than that.(I could feel their eyes everywhere, everywhere) </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The simple fact is, there isn’t a simple answer. It’s not black and white. It’s a thousand worlds of grey. A thousand galaxies of grey that seem impossible to tell apart.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And, yet, that answer would confuse the shit out of them.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What do you mean it’s not that simple?” the whole earth seems to ask. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>They don’t understand. And how could anyone who isn’t one of the <em>fags</em>?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I mean, gender is supposed to be one of those simple things, simple this or that, one or the other. Like black or white. Hot or cold? Boy or girl?</span>
</p><p>
  <span> But it’s really not that simple. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The doctors cry a gender - and that’s it. We all know that’s how it goes.And so I’m trapped. Because the doctor cried a gender and now there’s no going back. The doctor made a decision about the inside based on the outside - because as far as he knew there’s no difference between in and out.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But there is. Lord, is there a difference.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>People look at me and I can see what they’re thinking.“Which box does it check when it fills out forms? M or F?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But newsflash - not everyone fits into perfect little boxes.Sometimes it’s not a simple “or”. Sometimes it’s a “neither” or an “either” or some third unknown response that those boys probably can’t fathom exists.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But that answer is there. It’s the answer that I want to scream at the top of my lungs to anyone that will listen. I want to shout it to the world because I’m tired of hiding in this closet.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But yet it’s also the answer that terrifies me. The answer that forces a flash of panic to erupt in my stomach every time someone asks me that dreaded question. It’s the answer that causes me such intense pain when someone gets it wrong.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Because I know that no one expects this unknown, undetermined answer. That answer doesn’t even exist in most minds. So when I hesitate to answer their question, they get nervous, look to the next person, trying to figure out the situation, trying to figure out what’s the matter, what’s wrong with me?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>What’s wrong with me?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I don’t fit in a box. I can’t give people a simple m/f answer. I can’t.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And that scares people. (It scares me too)</span>
</p><p>
  <span>So I force myself to pick a box, whichever box will make them, them most comfortable. I force myself to pick whichever box will be most believable, in order to avoid further questioning.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And maybe I could have played it off, lowered my voice and told them to fuck off. Maybe they’d change their minds about what I am. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>But maybe they wouldn’t. Maybe there was never any chance in the first place. Maybe there never will be. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>But I will keep on trying to pass, wearing what is deemed masculine just so that I’m not always such a fucking girl. And maybe I’m just done being trapped in a world that only recognizes two boxes.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Boy or girl?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>(It’s not that simple)</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0007"><h2>7. Things get better as time goes by</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>A cough; <em>Don’t get my girls sick</em>; quitting dance. Geometry; handing in assignments half-finished and three days late; the look of disappointment on her face. A complaint; a person standing behind me; a shrug. A tube of bright pink lip gloss; smudges on my teeth; a stained shirt. <em>Yes</em> and then <em>No</em>; his new girlfriend Grace; accusations and a breakup. A comb stuck in my hair; scissors and impulsivity; new bangs. The urge to wear pigtails; the urge to wear them twice. Red hair dye; the wrong shampoo; orange streaks. Gum on the hallway floor; gum on my clothes. Gum in her mouth; laughter; gum on my neck. Split pants; green underwear; a loud remark on the stairs. Forgetting deodorant; forgetting meds; forgetting homework; a zero in the gradebook. The wrong idea; a loud voice; laughter from the back of the bus. Forgetting to eat; skipping a month (maybe two); a change in meds. An unwashed bag; an unwatched bag; clothes thrown on the dirt; a missing phone. The feeling of not being able to breathe for all the wrong reasons. Two U-hauls; leaving her behind; the feeling of being lost.</p><p>            Our last night together; sleeping on a bare floor; Netflix and two sleeping bags; a promise. A new haircut; a new name; a stranger’s remark as I pass by. A history class; <em>c’s get degrees</em>; a secret shared in the doorway. The football field; warm sun on black jeans; the word “boy” on a hat. A good teacher; <em>This one goes to eleven</em>; <em>here lies Charlie’s chemistry grade</em>; doing better than expected on a test. A foot on my desk; <em>You’re McClane’s Charlie</em>; giving the teacher the wrong idea; <em>I’ll give you cake</em>. November 22; a kiss on New Year’s Eve; holding her hand in the hallway; Peter Pan and Tinkerbell. A long talk; a scarf; the end to a relationship. Learning to drive; long roads and open windows; throwing her name out the passenger seat window. The feeling of success; <em>we are happy to accept your application</em>; no more panic. <em>Mr. Christensen is secretly an alien</em>; <em>one of my best students</em>; a manifesto to be proud of. Being someone’s best friend; Kenzie’s hugs; making a difference.</p>
  </div></div>
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